


And That Has All the Differential Made

by loveslashangst



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-21
Updated: 2010-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:36:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveslashangst/pseuds/loveslashangst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A “differential” is a medical term for the doctor’s original diagnosis, a sort of educated “brainstorming” about conditions that might fit the patent’s symptoms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And That Has All the Differential Made

As soon as John enters 221B Baker Street, Sherlock pins him to the door, one hand alongside his head. Though their bodies don’t touch, John can feel the heat radiating from his flatmate. And that grey stare, usually so cold and dispassionate, is a silver flame in its intensity.

It’s enough to make John’s breath catch in his throat, because this has become his favourite part of coming home from work.

Sherlock’s eyes are wild, though his breath is calm. He rakes John with a predatory gaze that strips him naked of every detail.

John hardens his eyes, knowing that if he shows the least sign of weakness, his lover will pounce too soon. “Not yet.”

“I’ve been waiting all day,” Sherlock says, an accusation.

Even as his body begins to stir, he refuses to break the gaze. “That’s not the game.”

Sherlock puts his other hand on the door by John’s other ear. He’s in his usual pyjamas-and-dressing-gown, which means not only have no cases magically appeared to distract him, but he’ll have been focussed all day on John’s return. This -- and the delicious morning shag that’s become the best part of their wakeup routine -- is what keeps John going during the longer, more tedious at the hospital.

Sherlock leans closer. He reeks pleasantly of arousal and the sex they had this morning. It’s enough to remind John’s cock why he adores this man.

"I've been WAITING all DAY," Sherlock says, direct and low in John’s ear so he can feel the hum of every vowel, the puffs of air from each consonant.

He takes a steadying breath, willing his voice not to squeak. “And you can wait a bit longer."

That must’ve been the right answer, because Sherlock heaves the kind of petulant sigh that means he’s decided to let John win. "Fine," says his flatmate, pushing off the wall and affecting a sugary smile. "Hello, John."

He represses a smirk and forces his voice calm. "Hello, Sherlock."

“Welcome home,” says Sherlock in that saccharine voice. Then a bit of challenge creeps into his eyes and voice. "How many?"

John grins. "Six, and you'll never guess the last one."

Sherlock fixes him with another piercing gaze. And though John itches to just snog him and have done with it, he restrains himself.

“Seven,” Sherlock corrects.

That catches him off guard. "I think I'd know how many patients I had.” He reviews his mental list of patients. “There were -- oh, right. Yes. Seven."

Sherlock scents at his throat, breathing him in, in little huffs of air. And FUCK, it's hot -- like some great predator's caught him, and is trying to decide whether he'll be particularly tasty. But his lover makes no skin contact, which means he’s electing to play by their rules. "Old woman,” Sherlock says. “Perfume, faint now, but it was pervasive to the point of being a biohazard. God, how did you stand being in the same room with her?”

“I nearly asphyxiated.”

“I believe you did. She was sixty or more.” Sherlock scents again. “Foxglove. Digitalis. She was worried about her heart, but overmedicating herself resulted in digitalis toxicity that manifested as arrhythmia.”

“You _must_ be cheating,” says John.

“Am I touching you?” Sherlock says, sleekly challenging.

It’s his turn to be sullen. “That’s not the only rule, but no.”

“Then it’s a perfectly acceptable observation.” Sherlock returns to his usual intensity. “The arrhythmia was the key, so you put her on a more conventional drug, though you might also have addressed the probable allergy while you were at it."

That didn’t make sense. “What allergy?”

“The perfume,” Sherlock says, amused. “Douse yourself in that much of anything and it’ll eventually prove toxic.”

Chuckling, he kisses Sherlock to reward him. "That's one. Even if you did cheat."

“You not following my perfectly logical deductions is not the same thing as cheating.” And as always, Sherlock tries to turn the kiss into more.

He catches Sherlock firmly by the jaw. Turns his head so Sherlock can’t kiss him. “That’s one-seventh, not one-half. Play the game.”

Sherlock relaxes into his hold, so John carefully and slowly lets him go. Sherlock appraises him with the ghost of a smile. “You’re a cruel man, John Watson.”

“Doctor Watson,” he corrects firmly. “And you love it when I’m on top.”

“True,” Sherlock muses. “The second of the seven patients was a young woman.”

“No fishing,” John warns.

“I’m not fishing,” Sherlock says, huffy. “Unless Sarah has dyed her hair Camden Pink, someone with too much mascara hugged you in gratitude. Something emotional; more likely to be female. Emotional outburst and personal grooming suggests young woman. By your blush, a pretty one."

And he _is_ blushing, damn the man. "Gorgeous, pink hair and all."

“Your blush also says she came to you for something relating to sex. Birth control plus hugging.” Sherlock peers at him. “Emergency birth control, then. Something went wrong.”

He schools his face to be unreadable. “NOW you’re fishing.”

“I’m right, though.” And that smile tugging at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth means John’s let something slip without meaning to. “She came to you for emergency birth control.” He pauses, and then his face falls. “You suspected rape.”

He knew this one would be a mood-killer, but a doctor can’t choose his patients, and Sherlock would never forgive him for omitting anything. “There were bruises at her wrists."

Anyone who thinks Sherlock Holmes has no heart hasn’t seen him in moments like this. “You alerted the university police?" he demands.

He nods, pleased. "I think it's the boyfriend."

Sherlock shakes his head firmly no. "The boyfriend's friend. Or brother. Or close cousin. She knows him, and so does her boyfriend."

“What?”

“Think, John,” says Sherlock, "If she's seeking emergency birth control, odds are less likely that it’s the boyfriend. She wants secrecy, hence you -- a strange doctor who’s less likely to ask questions and poke about.”

“Poor girl,” says John with dire amusement, “If she only knew.”

Sherlock nods. “She thinks it's her fault, especially if the sex was not entirely un-consensual."

John makes a mental note to follow up with the university tomorrow. "Rohypnol?"

Sherlock shrugs "Or Ecstasy, GHB, or half a dozen other intoxicants. Even alcohol might be enough, depending on her tolerance. Most rapists are cowards and opportunists. Her injuries say he held her down. That means he intended to take what he wanted, and the drugs gave him the illusion of consent. Your expression tells me the rest."

The game has taken a depressing turn. "Sometimes I hate my job."

“Then quit." The faint sparkle in Sherlock’s eyes says he’ll make it worth John’s while.

John glares at him.

Sherlock grins, unrepentant.

He kisses him punishingly. "That's two."

Sherlock returns the kiss with interest, all bite and barely restrained passion. But he does pull back before John’s resolve can crack. "Three is flu. Four is cough. Both children, brought in by parents. Boring."

It still amazes him. “How can you possibly--?”

“Mucus,” Sherlock says. “Two different colours. Different heights and trajectories, from a rudimentary glance at the splatter patterns. One at your shoulder. The other almost in your lap. Shoulder says the patient was seated and so were you, but the patient was shorter, therefore child. Wider splatter pattern says sneeze, but it’s not just a simple cold. Bad enough that the parent drags the child in, therefore flu, and judging from the greenish tinge, the child’s well into the latter stages. The second splatter at the lap says the patient coughed forward. Adults are trained to cough away. Turn the head. Use the sleeve. Find a tissue, therefore child again.”

Sherlock leans in, pausing close enough to make John’s heart thunder in his ears. “I should make you change before I shag you.”

“Oh no,” says John, voice steadier than it has any right to be. “I’m shagging YOU today.”

“Is it Thursday?” says Sherlock.

“It absolutely is.” And he’s been looking forward to it all day. “And as for the wardrobe change, I assumed we’d just undress and skip to the sex.”

“That would be acceptable too.” Sherlock takes his victory kisses -- firm-and-perfunctory becomes slow-and-smouldering.

At this point in the game, John always begins to wonder whose resolve is actually being tested. “And five?” he prompts.

Sherlock strips off John’s coat. Touches John’s arm on the still-lingering bruise. He flinches.

“Middle age,” Sherlock says.

“Removing clothing is against the rules,” John says.

“The coat isn’t clothing; it’s outerwear,” Sherlock says. “Middle age,” he repeats, more pointedly this time. “Maybe older. Female, from the spacing of the contusions your shirt is hiding.”

“Why female?” John really just wants to kiss him again. His lips are slightly bruised and aching for more, and it’s all he can do to ignore the pulsing need in his groin.

“I’d have to have a more conclusive look, but I’m guessing smaller marks, and closer together. Means a smaller hand. Women are statistically more likely to have small hands. She was weakened by some condition. You had to help her up."

John nods, amazed again. "She could hardly get on the table."

Sherlock cocks his head, analyzing. He’s patently gorgeous when he does that. “But not so weak she couldn't grab and leave bruises. Therefore not a serious or chronic condition, like leukaemia or cancer.” Sherlock clicks his fingers. “Back twinge."

He nods. “Very good.”

Sherlock glances up, no doubt wracking his brain for other maladies. “Slipped disc, perhaps. Maybe sciatica. Or late pregnancy?”

“Car accident.” He’s helping now, because his dick is blackmailing him with the memory of how good it is to roger all coherent thoughts out of this brilliant man. “She may require surgery, poor thing. So that’s five.”

Sherlock kisses him deliciously. Licks his way into John’s mouth until John’s clinging to him, desperate for more. “Patients this easy are boring. Can’t we just skip to the sex?”

“The last one’s harder,” John tempts.

“I’m harder,” says Sherlock, pursuing more smouldering kisses.

John fists his hands in the lapels of Sherlock’s dressing gown and forces down the surge of lust. “Earn it,” he says coldly.

Sherlock shivers happily. Looks him over again. Scents, up and down his arms. Across his chest. Up his neck.

John’s vision blurs with desire. His hands flex tightly in the fabric, though now he’s pulling at Sherlock so he can stay upright and focussed, and resist the temptation to just flip Sherlock against the flat’s door and finish this.

“Six and seven,” says Sherlock, hot breath pulsing against John’s jugular, “are linked.”

John forces his hands to un-clench. Turns the grabbing into stroking. Sherlock will solve this last one to their mutual satisfaction -- though John no longer cares how much he gets right -- and the real fun will begin.

“Mother and daughter,” says Sherlock.

John represses the smirk. _Wrong._ “There was a mother.”

"Mother and daughter,” Sherlock muses. “Young daughter. Barely out of single-digits. Five, maybe, or six. But there's nothing wrong with the child."

His breath catches at the beauty of the inferential leap. "Damn you're good."

"It's the mother."

"It's always the mother.” He slides his hands around Sherlock’s waist, glad that Sherlock’s solved more than half of the patients, so now John’s perfectly within his rights to distract them both. “Tell me."

"She's afraid," Sherlock murmurs, raising John’s hand to his lips. He licks at John’s fingers, making him squirm. Nips at the palm. Brushes his cheek up John’s arm.

John’s dick definitely thinks the game’s gone on long enough, but his pride won’t let him give in. “Fishing again,” he warns.

Sherlock briefly presses his face into John’s shoulder, though he’s focussed and sober when he pulls back. “Whyever Mother Six and Daughter Seven came in,” he says, “it's not serious. If it were serious, you wouldn't be frotting me like this. So Mother Six is afraid. Why is she afraid? There's nothing wrong with the child."

“There is nothing wrong with the child,” John confirms. Then he kisses Sherlock firmly. “Finish the game so we can go fuck.”

“She was unharmed,” says Sherlock.

“Yes.” Kissing Sherlock is like kissing a seething storm.

“And yet she'd bring her daughter in." Sherlock teases his lips.

John doesn’t bother to hide the grin. "You always get one thing wrong."

Sherlock grins too, realizing.

“Not a daughter,” Sherlock says, his lips brushing John’s. “A son then. But why do I smell cherry lip gloss on your hands? That’s a child’s thing.”

“A GIRL’S thing,” John corrects.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Oh for pity... He’s six. A child. All children like cherry-flavoured things."

"He’s five,” says John. “Though he’ll be six next week.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Sherlock makes a dismissive gesture. "Five is barely old enough to know what sex IS, let alone to embrace one's inner homosexual."

"That's what I told her,” John says, amused. “Only politely."

“Besides,” says Sherlock, "it’s nearly November. Chilly air. Lip balm probably soothed his chapped lips."

John nods. "I told her that I wasn't aware of cherry lip balm having ever affected a child's sexuality. But that if it bothered her so much, she should simply provide a more manly treatment for chapped lips."

“That’s brilliant.” Sherlock grins. “Did she hide him for nicking it from the chemist’s?”

“What?”

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. "Where else would a five-year-old get lip balm, if not his mother?"

John quirks an eyebrow back at him. "Maybe he's a lady's man."

Sherlock kisses him soundly. "You're projecting."

John presses his thigh between Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock moans into his mouth. Kisses him harder. John slides his fingers into Sherlock’s hair. Pulls his head back.

“And you got it wrong,” John says coolly.

Sherlock grins, the high flush on his cheeks and the white-hot hardness at John’s thigh betraying his arousal. “I was mostly right.”

“Mostly.” He licks a line up Sherlock’s throat to his chin.

With a stifled moan, Sherlock begins to pull at John’s clothes.

John deflects Sherlock’s hands. Pulls at the dressing gown. Sherlock doesn’t fight him very hard when he reverses their positions so Sherlock’s pinned to the door.

The kisses are deeper now, and fiercer. John reaches for the waist of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms; the game is much easier when Sherlock’s between cases and therefore not in one of his perfectly-fitted suits.

A rumble of approval as he strokes Sherlock’s bared hip. “I love this game.”

John strips off his own shirt. “That’s why we play.”


End file.
